


Obscure Heroes

by Miri1984



Series: The Blight and How It Mucked Us Up [1]
Category: Dragon Age
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-01-04
Updated: 2012-01-04
Packaged: 2017-10-28 22:42:58
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 13
Words: 19,698
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/312978
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Miri1984/pseuds/Miri1984
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Alistair is taken to the Chantry at the age of 10. This story follows his life up to the point where he is rescued by Duncan and recruited into the wardens.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

He wouldn't talk. Not to Teagan. Not to Eamon. Certainly not to the chantry sister who had come to accompany him back to the monastery. They couldn't make him talk.

They could make him do everything else, yes. Could rip him away from everything he'd known, dump him into a monastery to become something he never wanted. Separate him from the only family he'd ever known - not that it was a _real_ family any way, not that he _cared_ about anyone in Redcliffe.

But not make him talk. That was _his_ choice.

He felt sick though. He'd never been on a boat for this long before. It was taking a lot of effort not to throw up. He thought it was just because he was upset so he refused, no matter how terrible his stomach felt, to give in to it.

His fingers reached to his neck for the familiar comfort he usually found there but this time he found nothing. Tears welled in his eyes and he shut them tight. _You don't even have that any more,_ he told himself. _You are nothing. You have nothing. You will be nothing._

 _You deserve nothing._

"I'm sure you'll do well, son," Eamon was saying. "You'll make a fine templar. Captain Sumner says you show a lot of promise with the sword and shield."

 _You would know that, Eamon,_ he thought furiously at his former foster father. _If you'd ever bothered to come and watch me._

He remained silent.

"Come on boy," Teagan said. "It's a good opportunity. The Templars won't take just anyone for an initiate you know."

He clamped his lips shut even tighter, swallowing the bile that rose in his throat. _Maybe they'll refuse me too,_ that thought gave him some comfort, until he remembered the look on Isolde's face as he left. If the chantry turned him out he would have nowhere left to go.

 _Good,_ he thought. _I'll run away and live with the Dalish. Or become a traveling bard like in the Orlesian tales. Or join Loghain Mac Tir's army and fight for Ferelden._

 _Or become a grey warden and ride a griffon through the air, slaying armies of darkspawn._

Yes, he liked that thought the best. Redcliffe would be besieged by the horde and he would swoop in and slay them all. And Isolde would beg him to forgive her and he would bow his head regally and tell her she was mislead, but she was only human. And she would weep. And he would fly away _and never come back._

He wondered how old you had to be before you could be a grey warden.

He was brought before the Revered Mother first. She was wrinkled, with white hair. Ancient and crabby. She scowled at him.

"The boy will have to speak eventually," she said. "We don't expect our students to be mute."

"I'm sure he will snap out of this," Eamon said. "He's usually very vocal actually."

"Alistair is just a little shocked at the transition," Teagan said, his hand on Alistair's shoulder. "He didn't know he was coming until yesterday."

The revered mother raised an eyebrow. "Really?" she said. "Well, that would take a little getting used to." She turned her gaze back to Alistair. He shifted uncomfortably. He felt like a piece of livestock being investigated before the slaughter.

"Well, he'll be housed with the orphans for the first year or so," the revered mother said. "We'll get started on his education. Can he read?"

Eamon shifted, looking confused. "A little," Teagan said. "I taught him what I could."

"I can read," Alistair burst out angrily. Then he realised he'd promised himself not to speak and clamped his lips shut again.

The revered mother's eyebrow shot up again and he thought he saw the smallest of smiles around her mouth. "And speak, it seems," she said. "Well these are two very useful skills for a templar. I hope you continue to practice them."

He glowered at her. She pursed her lips, and turned around to pull a cord behind her desk. Two sisters came to the door - one obviously only in her teens and the other almost as ancient as the revered mother herself.

"Sister Adela and Sister Constance will show you to the boys' quarters," the revered mother said. "Say goodbye to your uncles now, I wish to speak with them in private."

 _They're not my uncles,_ he thought furiously. _And I don't want to say goodbye to them._ He turned his back on the two men and walked towards the sisters.

"Alistair," Teagan's voice came then, chiding, almost sad. He clenched his hands into fists. He would not look around.

"Don't push the boy, Teagan," Eamon's voice came. "We can come and visit soon. Maybe he'll feel better then."

Alistair squeezed his eyes shut for a moment and made a vow to himself. _I won't speak to you again,_ he said. _No matter how many times you visit._

 _Never again._

He walked out between the sisters. He didn't look back.


	2. Chapter 2

For the first time in his young life, Alistair was forced into a routine. He didn't like it. Not at the beginning, any way. At Redcliffe he'd woken up whenever the stable hands had started prepping the horses (usually well before any of the castle's inhabitants) and he would run down to the lake to splash and bathe if it was hot, then run to the kitchens to beg some food. He'd discovered early on that cook liked it if he was clean and presentable. She was more likely to give him the good pastries if he was polite and charming as well. Sometimes he would beg extra for the boys in the village.

The rest of the day he would spend avoiding people, usually. Teagan would snag him for lessons every now and then that he soaked up if he felt inclined and fidgeted through if he didn't. He would visit the barracks and talk to the soldiers, some of whom would indulge him in a bit of swordplay and training if he was especially charming.

He would hide in the mill or play tag with the other boys. Or pretend to be in battles. Sometimes he had fights - usually with the older boys who would tease him for being a bastard. He found he didn't mind so much that they teased him, only that their teasing would make the other children avoid him for a time, as though they'd remembered he had a contagious disease or smelled like rotten cabbage.

They would always forget, though. And each little bitter encounter with the older boys just made him more determined to have fun with his friends... and more skilled with his fists.

He found himself thinking back on those days regretfully. Now he was up with everyone at dawn and he had no time for himself at all. The boys were herded - like cattle - into lines and taken down to the river, where they were forced in for a wash (even in the middle of winter, some of the older boys told him gleefully). Then they were herded into a dining hall where they were fed porridge and cold tea. Then they were marched off in two groups - those of them destined to be templar initiates into one area, the rest of them into another.

There were only twenty boys (and some girls) who were to be templars. Most of them had been placed there by their families. Some were the sons and daughters of nobles, the others were the sons and daughters of merchants and farmers who had reasoned that a career as a templar was a better life for a fourth or fifth child than anything they could offer.

The girls were educated separately, of course. In fact, apart from the sisters, Alistair hadn't seen a single one of them since he'd arrived at the Chantry. He wondered, sometimes, where they were hiding. On the one or two occasions when he was able to sneak out on his own he spent a little time searching for them, pretending to be a knight in shining armour, rescuing princesses from the evil chantry priests.

He never found them.

The days were then taken up with lessons. Maker, the lessons. They were endless and repetitive and boring and he thought he would die from the tedium. He liked hearing the Chant of Light - especially the Canticle of Threnodies - anything to do with the Blights he loved learning about, but the other canticles were so _dull_ and he was expected to know them _all._

He didn't much mind the History of Ferelden, either, especially when they got to the good bits about Loghain and his fights against the Orlesians. Part of him felt funny, though, whenever Maric was mentioned. _His father,_ he would think. The words never seemed right. In his head, his father was someone else entirely - someone dead. Like his mother was dead. He didn't have a father.

He'd met him, once. Only once. He could still remember it as clearly as if it had happened yesterday. He'd been eight years old. When Eamon had told him that the king was visiting he couldn't help but think that he was coming to fetch him. Part of him had been excited.

But he'd been disappointed. More so than he would ever have admitted.

"So this is the boy?" Maric had said, his blue eyes cold as they ran over him.

"Yes, your majesty," Eamon replied. "Healthy, as you see. Normal, in every respect."

The blonde head nodded once, firmly. "Good," he said, then turned to Eamon and motioned for the Arl to follow him, leaving Alistair standing in the audience hall, alone.

He never spoke with Maric again.

So when the king's name was mentioned in his history lessons, he remembered that cold blue stare and the businesslike tone of voice and shivered, sometimes. He didn't think he looked like his father. _His_ eyes were brown - _his_ hair was more red than blonde. He would look at himself, reflected in the water of Lake Calenhad, or in the water trough, and imagine that he looked more like his mother. Not that he knew what she looked like, either. He only knew he didn't want to look like Maric. He didn't want to be his son. He wanted to be someone else's son - anyone else's - because if he was someone _normal_ he wouldn't be in the chantry, locked up with forty other boys, most of whom hated him. He'd be with his family.

The other boys avoided him when they could, which he didn't mind - at first anyway. It was only when he overheard a conversation between two of the brothers that he realised why.

He was on his way to chores in the kitchens (this was every afternoon after lessons) with two other boys who were walking well ahead of him, occasionally looking back and sniggering. Brother Avery and Brother Leland were standing talking in the corridoor. The looked up as he passed and Avery smiled - a sly smile with a good deal of malice in it. Alistair nodded at the brothers and kept walking, ducking around a corner and waiting, wondering what they were talking about.

"Eamon's bastard, I heard," Brother Avery's voice came. "Got him on some serving wench."

"Huh," Leland replied. "That explains the airs he puts on. Little turd. Acts like he owns the place."

"No wonder the Arlessa wanted him out of Redcliffe," Avery finished.

"Do the other boys know?"

"The ones who still talk to their parents do. Everyone knows about him, who's ever been to Redcliffe. He used to sleep in the stables, they say. Probably felt more at home with the beasts than with his betters."

Alistair flushed to the roots of his hair. He hadn't known his past was talked of like that - in the Chantry of all places. The brothers were supposed to be focused on the Maker and the Chant. They were supposed to be... good. Or at least trying to be good. Wasn't that the point of being here? The brothers moved off, still talking, but too softly for him to overhear. He stayed, leaning against the wall for a long time, his jaw clenched, his mind racing.

He was late for his chores. "Where've you been boy?" the sister scolded him.

"Nowhere," he said sulkily.

"Nonsense, child. You must have been somewhere."

"I'm here now, aren't I?"

She tsked at him. "Smart comments won't get you anywhere, young man. You'll stay back and help cook tonight. You can be late for dinner as well."

Since dinner was served out to the boys in one lot, that meant he would miss out on dinner altogether - a sore trial for a child who had been hard at work all day. Cook wasn't like the cook at Redcliffe, either. She didn't take kindly to boys trying to beg food off her, even charming and clean ones.

He kicked a milk bucket in anger. But only when the sister was out of earshot.


	3. Chapter 3

He'd been in the Chantry for nearly two months when Eamon came. A sister came to his classroom one morning and spoke with the teacher - sister Adela, Alistair realised, one of the first sisters he'd met.

The teacher was Brother Bertrand. Bertrand seemed to take delight in tormenting Alistair during lessons - every particularly hard question was directed at him and even slightly inaccurate answers were punished with a swipe of his thin cane across the fingers. Alistair had taken to sitting in his chair with his hands clamped under his thighs, for fear that the Brother would take casual swipes at him as he walked past.

He wondered what was going on this time. When Sister Adela beckoned to him Alistair looked at Bertrand in query.

"Go on, boy!" he said. "The revered mother wants to see you. Don't keep her waiting!"

He clambered to his feet and followed Adela, his stomach churning. Had he done something wrong? Was he going to be thrown out?

In the corridor Adela smiled at him. He was taken aback, too shocked by this kindness to smile back. "Am I in trouble?" he said in a small voice.

She laughed. It was a lovely sound. He hadn't really heard much laughter, apart from the snickering of the older boys when they teased him, or the nasty, snorting gurgle Brother Bertrand gave whenever he found something wrong about a boy that he could punish.

She was actually very pretty, for a sister. Dark hair pulled back in the severe bun and twinkling grey eyes. "Not at all, Alistair," _she remembered his name!_

"Then why does the revered mother want to see me?" he was bewildered.

"Your uncle is here to see you," she replied. "Isn't that lovely?"

Alistair stopped dead. "My uncle?"

"Well, I suppose he's not your uncle, is he? The Arl of Redcliffe?"

Alistair's breath started to heave in and out of his chest. "I don't want to see him," he said softly, trying very hard not to shout.

"What?" Adela looked shocked and a little frightened.

"I said I don't want to see him. I _won't_ see him!"

And he ran.

Instinct guided his feet towards the stables - always his refuge at Redcliffe. It was a familiar place - all stables were. There were only two horses housed there - big work horses to pull the ploughs in the fields. They were gentle beasts who didn't mind his presence.

He found a corner and sat in the hay, wrapping his arms around his knees and rocking back and forth. He would _not_ see Eamon.

Before Isolde had come his life at Redcliffe had been different. Not exactly easy - but different. He'd slept in the castle, for one. In a cot in the servants quarters, true, but in the castle nonetheless. Eamon had spent a small part of each day with him - playing or talking or reading to him. He'd had a few toys of his own - he remembered one - a small figurine of a golem - that Eamon had given him one birthday that he especially loved.

But then Eamon had married that... woman. Alistair had known Isolde before she became the Arlessa, and he'd always admired her from a distance - she was very beautiful, and he loved the sound of her voice when she spoke. But when she and Eamon married...

She had no time for the five year old boy who may have been Eamon's bastard. Eamon spent a lot of time away from the castle and when he was gone, she did everything in her power to make sure that Alistair came nowhere near her.

He had no doubt that Isolde was the reason he was in the Chantry in the first place. But he couldn't help but be angry with Eamon as well. Weren't wives supposed to obey their husbands? Surely, if Eamon had cared about him at all, he would have stopped Isolde from being so horrible to him.

So he would not go and see the Arl of Redcliffe, even though he'd gone to the trouble to come and visit him. He would sit in the stables until someone came to find him. _If_ someone came to find him. He would go back to his class and be caned for disobedience and the Arl could go back to his nasty wife and live happily ever after.

He'd been in the stables for an hour when he heard someone coming. He debated whether to hide, but thought the better of it. Let them find him. He wasn't afraid of being punished. Not much, anyway.

It was Sister Adela. She saw him immediately. "Alistair?" she said. "The Arl said you'd probably be here."

"Did he?" Alistair said bitterly. "Well, he _would_ know."

"Why won't you see him?"

He scowled at her. She came closer to him and sat on an old saddle near his pile of straw. Most sisters would have frowned at the muck and dust, but she didn't seem to mind.

He decided he liked her. But he wasn't going to answer her question. He put his chin on his knees and shook his head.

"He's come a long way," she said.

Alistair snorted. "It's an hour in a boat," he said.

"Is that why you won't see him? Because he could have come so easily before?"

He shook his head.

Adela sighed. "I think I understand," she said. "Do you know how old I was when I came here?"

"No," he said.

"I was ten," she said.

" _I'm_ ten!"

She smiled at him. "I know," she said. "I know you didn't want to leave your home, because neither did I. But in the end I know it was for the best."

"The best for _you_ ," he said.

She cocked her head. "Perhaps. But I also know that part of me chose to make it better. You've got a choice, Alistair. You can hate every second of this life and be miserable, or you can find things to enjoy about it, and be happy. Or at least," she gave a wry smile. "At least be happier than you are right now."

He looked up at her. "I don't want to see the Arl," he said, softly. "Can _that_ be my choice?"

Adela looked at him searchingly, her grey eyes boring into his as though she could read his soul. "If that's what you truly want, I don't think the revered mother will force you to see him."

He nodded firmly. "Good," he said, getting to his feet.

"Alistair," Adela said, putting her hand on his arm. "I want you to promise me something."

"All right," he said.

She smiled. "It's a good idea to ask someone _what_ before you agree to promising something," she said.

He smiled a little. "All right, what?"

"Try to be happy? Even if it's hard? You don't deserve to be sad."

His heart suddenly felt too big for his chest and he was embarrassed to feel his eyes filling. He swallowed and nodded. "I promise," he said.

 _For you,_ he thought.


	4. Chapter 4

It was easier, after that. He didn't have to see Eamon, even though the Arl came twice more. Although he knew the revered mother thought he was ungrateful and silly, Adela spoke up for him. If he didn't have to see Eamon, he didn't have to be reminded of what he didn't have, and he could find some solace in what he did.

The thing that made it the most bearable, apart from his occasional conversations with Adela, was the training. He'd been wondering when the real training would start. In fact, once the boys had a rudimentary understanding of the Chant and the Canticles, those mornings in the classroom stopped. He was grateful to have nothing more to do with Brother Bertrand, and even more excited to start training with actual Templars.

It was a little confusing at first, because it seemed to have nothing to do with actual fighting. They spent a lot of time simply standing still while Ser Reynard circled them, correcting their stance or trying to prod them off balance with sudden thrusts of his shield. Alistair found he enjoyed trying to control his nervousness as the silent templar circled them. There was something highly satisfying about managing to keep his balance when Ser Reynard tried to catch him off guard.

On other days they practiced focusing their willpower, which bewildered him for months. He didn't know he _had_ willpower. He certainly didn't know how to focus it.

It wasn't until Ser Reynard showed him what was a templar was capable of that he began to understand.

They were on the practice field and Ser Reynard had set up a practice dummy. Alistair was excited - he thought they would finally be starting to train with swords. Instead, Ser Reynard had them line up behind him.

"This is what you're training for," Reynard said. He spread his arms and focused and suddenly the training dummy was engulfed in light. A shockwave rolled over them from where the dummy stood and Alistair caught his breath.

"What was that?" he asked, once the wave had passed. "And why is the dummy still there?"

"That was what we call holy smite," Reynard said. "And the dummy is still there because it's a talent that works against the _spirit_ and not the body. The dummy isn't alive, so it doesn't get harmed."

"What would happen if you used that on a person?" another boy asked in a small voice.

"A normal person would be stunned and a little injured. A _mage_ on the other hand..." Ser Reynard turned and faced the boys. "A mage would lose much of his power, if not all, depending on the strength of the Templar who smote him."

"And if we learn to focus our will.." Alistair said.

"Eventually you will be able to perform a smite like that too, Alistair," Reynard said, his lips twitching in a half smile. "But it will take time. Holy Smite is the most powerful of our abilities. I showed it to you today because I think some of you..." he turned his eyes on two of the boys in particular and Alistair was very relieved their cold blue gaze wasn't focused on him "... needed a little bit of encouragement."

It boiled down to discipline. For the first time in his life, Alistair felt like he was in some form of control of what he did. He listened intently to all of Ser Reynard's lessons and diligently practiced the exercises he was given. Although he was by no means the best student in the group, he was certainly one of the most focused.

Alistair turned eleven. A package came for him from Eamon, but he had the revered mother send it back to Redcliffe without even looking at it.

One of the advantages to being eleven was that he was given his own room. The other boys had been gossiping about it and looking forward to it for months, but Alistair found he was dreading it.

He had never slept in a room alone before. At Redcliffe in the servants quarters he'd shared a room with three others, all children of the serving staff who might be needed for chores at any time. When Isolde had him removed from there he slept in the stables, with the horses and at least one other stable hand. He was used to noise - the noise of other boys, the noise of animals. He found the idea of being locked in a cell to sleep - in silence - terrifying.

It was worse than he'd thought it would be. Nightmares plagued him. It felt like he woke every couple of minutes, and every time he woke up he felt confined, alone and afraid. It was pitch black in his cell - the high window only ever let in starlight and that was never enough to give him even the smallest idea of what shapes might lurk in the corners. He would roll into a ball and squeeze his eyes shut, his heart pounding and his breath coming short and fast, longing to sleep but not able to.

On the third night he woke up screaming. The nightmare had been of nothing - nothing he could give a name to - just a brooding, dark evil. He was certain it was in the room with him. He couldn't stop the scream from pouring out of him. Every time he took a breath he felt it gather again in his chest and no matter how hard he tried he couldn't keep it in.

Brother Mica came to him that night and managed to get him to calm down enough to sleep. But the same thing happened the next night. And the next. Until finally he would feel the scream starting as soon as he walked in the door of his cell. He hadn't slept properly in a week - he was nearly delirious. He fell asleep at meals.

After a week Brother Mica took him to the Revered Mother. By this stage Alistair barely knew what his name was. The fear had almost completely consumed him.

The Revered Mother spoke to him, but he couldn't understand her words. Finally she sent Mica away to fetch someone. Alistair was sitting staring blankly at a wall with his arms wrapped around himself when Sister Adela came in.

"You seem to have some affinity with the boy," the Revered Mother said. "Get some sense out of him will you? He's got half the Chantry awake every night with his screaming."

He recognised her when she knelt in front of him. The eyes were kind, the smile was genuine. He took a deep breath and blinked.

"Alistair?" she said, touching his knee. "Alistair can you hear me?" He blinked again and nodded. "Can you tell me what's wrong?"

He clamped his lips shut and shook his head.

"Insolent boy," the Revered Mother said. "I don't know why we put up with his antics, really I don't."

"Your holiness," Adela said softly. "He might be more willing to talk if we're on our own."

"Huh," she replied. "Well, if I'm to be turned out of my own office.."

"I'll take him with me, your holiness. I think it might be better if he's outside in any case."

"As you wish, sister. Go then."

Adela held out her hand to Alistair. He grasped it firmly and stood up as she led him out of the Revered Mother's presence.

Her hand was warm and soft and human and he suddenly felt like if he let it go he would sink into the earth and never be seen again.

"Where would you like to go, Alistair?" Adela asked him. He didn't answer, but simply walked out of the building towards the river. He stopped when they got to the water's edge and took a deep breath, slowly letting his hand drop from the sister's, suddenly more aware of his surroundings and embarrassed - so, so embarrassed that he really, really wanted to plunge headfirst into the freezing water there and then.

Instead he turned to face Adela. "I'm sorry, sister," he said.

"What are you sorry for, Alistair?"

"I shouldn't have.. I didn't.."

"Brother Mica told me you've been having nightmares," she said. "He said they started when you moved into your room."

He nodded. Suddenly exhausted, he sank onto the ground near the river. Adela sat facing him, tucking her legs under her Chantry robe and clasping her hands in front of her. He didn't know why she was talking to him. He didn't deserve her attention.

"I'm being silly," he said. "That's what Isolde would say, any way."

"Isolde? Is she the Arlessa?" He nodded. Adela's face turned grim. "I've heard about her."

"It's just so _quiet_ in there. I can't sleep, and when I do I have nightmares. And then I wake up and I can't stop myself from screaming because the cell is.. dark...and..cold... and I'm alone and... it's exactly like the nightmare and.. and.." he realised his breath was coming in sobs and there were tears streaming down his face and he really, really, _really_ wished that the ground would swallow him up.

Adela reached forward and took his hand in hers. She didn't offer any words, or tell him he was being silly, she just sat there, holding his hand until his tears stopped and he could breathe again.

"Would it be better if you slept in the dormitory with the other children?" she said.

He nodded.

"Well," she got up and brushed off her robe. "I don't see any reason why you shouldn't. They only put the initiates in their own rooms and there are never enough single cells any way."

"You mean, I could move back to my old bed?"

Adela smiled at him. "I'll speak to the Revered Mother."

He bit his lip. "But then everyone will know that I..."

"No they won't," she said. "Well, the ones who don't know already won't, any way. We often have to put the initiates back in with the other children, you know. The monastery isn't never-ending."

The thought of not having to sleep in the cell again was enough to make him not really care if the other initiates thought he was a coward. They already hated him. And the Chantry orphans were much nicer than they were.

He wiped his eyes on the back of his hand and sniffed.

"You might want to wash your face in the river, Alistair," Adela said. "Then we'll take you back to the Revered Mother."

He nodded and tried to smile.


	5. Chapter 5

After his move, the initiates who had the rooms near his old cell gave him odd looks, but none of them said anything. His screaming had been.. disturbing enough for them not to want to mention it to anyone, and Alistair was relieved.

Back in the dormitory, Alistair found himself happier than he'd been since before Isolde came. The orphan boys weren't like the initiates. Some of them were as scared and alone as he remembered being when he'd first got there. They were mostly younger than him, and most of them had been there for longer. There was no shortage of orphans in Ferelden - even without a war there were too many things that could separate a child from his or her parents early and the monastery was one of the biggest orphanages in the region.

It wasn't a bad life, really, and most of the boys felt lucky that they had a bed in which to sleep and adequate meals to eat. The brothers were impartial in their care and the boys were mostly left to look after themselves. There wasn't much free time for them to get into trouble - there were always jobs that needed doing and only the extremely young were exempted from them. When an orphan got to twelve or thirteen they tended to either join the brothers or take apprenticeships. A lot of the Chantry children ended up living far better than they would have had their parents survived. But there was a sense of sadness about them as well - the knowledge that they were one of many - without a mother to hold them first in her heart, a father to love them unconditionally, no matter what they did.

It made them both more harsh and more vulnerable than other children.

There were a few who were unable to find places as they got older, however. The Chantry only provided for them until they were sixteen - old enough to be married if they were girls or, presumably, make their own way if they were boys. Alistair understood that the situation was desperate for the girls - the Chantry did not provide a dowry, so marriage was unlikely, but the girls also had the option of becoming sisters who might eventually rise to through the ranks to become Revered Mothers. For boys this was more difficult. Becoming a brother was looked upon with disdain by most men, and those boys who were still waiting to find a position after the age of twelve were often resentful and mean. These were the ones who gave the other boys trouble.

The two worst were called Bannik and Marcus. Bannik was thirteen and heavily built - everyone had expected him to go to the blacksmith at Redcliffe for an apprenticeship, but somehow that had fallen through. Marcus was twelve and lean, but Alistair knew from experience that there was a wiry strength in those long limbs and he had spent a good deal of his first year at the Chantry avoiding him.

They delighted in tormenting the other children.

At Redcliffe, Alistair had a very simple way of dealing with bullies. They teased him about his parentage, and when they reached a certain point or said certain things, he would hit them. The consequences were usually harsh for both parties - but _only_ if they were caught, and as Alistair's movements were almost never tracked by anyone, he was rarely caught. On the few occasions he was, he had been given a verbal lashing from Eamon about the importance of not resorting to violence, then, ironically, beaten soundly across the backside with a leather strap.

He'd always been puzzled by the logic in that.

At the Chantry boys caught fighting were punished differently.

Alistair had a different schedule to the other boys and as a result he often came and went from the dormitory on his own. It was on one such occasion in midwinter that he ran into Bannik and Marcus, literally, turning a corner and smacking into the wide expanse of flab that was the bigger boy, Bannik. Marcus was standing behind him.

They both had a full head of height over him. Alistair froze. There was no way the sisters would let these two wander the halls unaccompanied - which meant they must have been on an errand for one of the brothers - probably Bertrand. Alistair's former teacher seemed to be blind to the boys' faults or mistakenly (in Alistair's opinion, any way) took them as strengths.

There was little chance that this would end well, but he put on his most charming smile in any case, hopeful, but not optimistic. "Hello Bannik. Hello Marcus."

Bannik scowled. Marcus, however, grinned. The taller boy had always been the brains behind their operation, and Alistair always thought of him as a snake among mice. "Well, if it isn't the little bastard," he said. "Too good to be working like the rest of us."

Alistair thought it wouldn't be prudent to point out that Marcus at least had less of an idea who his father was than Alistair. Not with Bannik flexing his fists like that.

He took a few steps backwards. "I'll... just be... getting along to the dormitory..." he said nervously.

"So who was your mother, any way?" Marcus asked, advancing as Alistair retreated. "A serving girl, I heard one of the brothers say. At Redcliffe? I heard the Arl got you on her in a pigsty."

"He's not my father!" Alistair burst out before he could stop himself.

Bannik laughed nastily. "You think you know who _is?"_ Marcus continued. "I bet your mother had so many she couldn't count them all. I bet she used to lie in the mud with her legs in the air... waiting..."

They were well past the point where Alistair usually let fly with is fists. He found himself reflexively clutching at his neck where her amulet used to lie and when he found it wasn't there - suddenly he didn't give a damn that they were in the halls of the monastery, like to be interrupted at any moment, because the rage that had started with Marcus' first taunt was reaching boiling point.

"I bet..." Marcus said slowly, his mouth working around the words as though he were eating a particularly tasty piece of meat, "..she used to have a line of men, all waiting to fuck her in the mud like the pig she was... "

Alistair snapped. He launched himself at the older boy, snarling.

It was an unfair fight, but Alistair's initial fury served him well and he was able to get in at least three solid punches to Marcus' face before the older boy twisted and grabbed at him. Alistair had seen it before - the dance these two performed, but he was helpless against it as Marcus held his arms so that Bannik could pummel him without resistance. He kicked once and let out a grunt of satisfaction when his foot connected with what he thought was Bannik's most private area, but his satisfaction was short lived as Bannik simply hit him harder - he'd obviously missed. _Must be a smaller target than I thought..._ Alistair had time to think, almost smiling as the breath was punched out of him.

"What's this?" came a shrill, female voice. "Boys fighting in the corridor? Stop this _instant!"_

Marcus immediately let go of Alistair's arms and he slumped to the floor, gasping for breath. He looked up to see Beatrice, one of the older sisters, flanked by two brothers. She motioned to the brothers. "Take them to the Revered Mother," she said, disgust in her tone. The brothers chuckled. One of them hauled Alistair to his feet and set him stumbling in front of them up towards the Revered Mother's office. The other two boys were herded along behind him.

Alistair hadn't seen the Revered Mother in anything other than sermons since the screaming incident. She was no less severe looking and even more intimidating up close. He had never seen her smile and she was certainly not doing so now. Instead she sat with her hands placed squarely on the desk in front of her, her dark eyes boring into each boy until Alistair was certain she could see under his clothes with the force of her will. He squirmed.

"Fighting _anywhere_ in these halls is unacceptable behaviour," she said sternly. Marcus looked like he was going to protest - he probably had some story about how Alistair had started it... oh, that's right, technically he _had_ started it... "I don't care _who_ started it," the Revered Mother said, reading his mind the way he knew she could, "as it is perfectly obvious by the state of you all that all three of you _continued_ it willingly. Marcus and Bannik I can understand resorting to violence but I am disappointed in you, Alistair. You are an initiate. Ser Reynard tells me you are progressing well in the Templar discipline. You should know better - and what's more, you should be able to control yourself."

He hung his head, correctly interpreting that silence and contrition were what the Revered Mother was looking for and not the defiance he might have offered to a less highly ranked sister.

"Do you have anything to say for yourselves?" she asked after a pause. _Not if we value our hides,_ he thought. All three of them shook their heads. "Well, then. A week of penitences for all three of you," she said.

Alistair had to clamp his mouth shut to repress the groan that tried to escape him. Penitences were conducted in a cell, supervised by a brother - and consisted of reciting canticles of the brother's choice until one's voice was hoarse. They never chose the good ones, either - and Alistair was still jumpy at entering any space smaller than the dormitory, especially on his own.

They also meant no free time to play or sit and contemplate or, in Alistair's case, practice his templar exercises. He resented the time that would be stolen from him in pointless punishment.

As the boys were led from the room, Marcus found an opportunity to get next to him and jab him in the ribs.

"This is your fault, bastard," he whispered. "We'll get you back."

Alistair had no doubt they would try.


	6. Chapter 6

Alistair's twelfth birthday came and went. This time there was no package from Eamon. He told himself he wasn't disappointed, and part of him felt a quiet satisfaction that his foster father had finally given up, even though there was another part that competed for attention - a small core of hurt.

More children arrived at the orphanage, among them a small, dark haired boy who was so tiny Alistair was amazed he could walk and talk. Not that he talked much - the only words he heard out of him were his name - Yuri - and a soft enquiry as to when they would eat. Apart from that, nothing.

One evening when Alistair came in from training he found the other children teasing him for being Chasind. It was entirely possible that he was - with his dark eyes, skin and hair, but Alistair found his heart beating painfully looking at the circle of children surrounding the tiny figure - remembering times in Redcliffe where  _he_ had been the one in the middle.

"Hey," he said, striding in with a confidence he didn't feel. "What's going on?"

Alistair was one of the bigger boys and most of the others knew better than to antagonise him. But he was taking a risk, standing up to them all in a group, and he knew it.

"What's it to you, bastard?" one of the boys said - Chad - a blonde boy a few years younger than Alistair who was a sometime hanger on of Bannik and Marcus.

"Look at him, Chad," Alistair said, putting on his cheerful face. "He's less than half your size. Ewan could best him." Ewan - a boy of six who was only slightly bigger than Yuri and  _not_ part of the group surrounding the new boy, grinned up at Alistair from his bunk.

"He's a filthy Chasind," Chad said. "They live like animals."

"Does that mean you have to treat them that way too?" Alistair asked. "He hasn't done anything to you, Chad. Leave him alone."

Chad had lost face. The other boys were dispersing, losing interest in Yuri and finding other things to do. Chad wasn't willing to take on Alistair by himself - he was a skinny boy who bullied in numbers rather than on his own. Instead he spat at Yuri's feet and sneered at Alistair.

"You're a whore's get, Alistair."

"Possibly," Alistair said. "That would give us one thing in common, anyway."

A few of the other boys chuckled. The skinny boy knew he'd been bested, but he wasn't certain how to deal with it, and stormed to his bunk.

There would be more trouble, Alistair didn't doubt it. He just hoped it would come down on his head and not Yuri's.

The little boy hadn't moved from where he was standing in the middle of the room and Alistair approached him, cautiously, the way he would a nervous animal. There was a certain air of wildness about him that made it easy to believe he was Chasind, despite his regulation chantry shirt and breeches.

"Are you all right?" Alistair asked him hesitantly. The boy looked up at him and stared, solemnly for a few moments, his dark eyes totally fathomless before nodding, once, and turning to go back to his bunk.

Trouble seemed to take delight in finding Alistair in a myriad of different ways, but the one way he hadn't expected was the one he was finding the most difficulty dealing with.

He had moved on to sword and shield training. And that meant the initiates were, for the first time, grouped together with girls.

The Templar discipline that Ser Reynard had been teaching had taken only a short period of every day, but sword and shield training was grueling and arduous and consumed the entire time between breakfast and lunch. There were only a limited number of templars available to train the recruits and it was easier to train them in one lot. Also, the Templar Knight Commander - Ser Malcolm - made it very clear to the girls and the boys that maleficarum came in both sexes. It was important to have no hesitation when faced by a woman in battle.

This was far easier said than done.

Alistair hadn't seen a girl close to his own age since Redcliffe. In Redcliffe, girls were easy. You pulled their hair or stole their dolls or pushed them in the lake and ran off laughing. You avoided them. Or you tormented them.

These days the slightest hint of a thought of them was enough to totally lose control of his own body. The younger sisters would do nothing more than wander past a classroom in which he was sitting and he would be completely unable to focus on his lessons. In sermons on holy days he  _knew_ the Revered Mother could  _hear_ him thinking lewd thoughts - but worse, he knew  _all the sisters could as well_. It was a power they had. Once they put on chantry robes the minds of boys were laid bare. Whereas he had once looked forward to talks with Sister Adela, now her merest glance was enough to leave him stuttering and desperate to get away, and the fact that she seemed to find it _amusing_ just reinforced his conviction that the sisters could see into his brain.

Fighting girls on the practice field was easier than seeing them off it.

The older boys made it worse. At night, when the younger children were asleep, they would have whispered conversations about what women looked like naked - what they would do for a copper in a backstreet in Denerim - what they would do for a sovereign in a whorehouse...

Marcus was the worst of them. He had an agile brain, and a lively imagination. But it was worse, because sometimes the things he thought up were cruel and Alistair knew they weren't just wrong in the ways Brother Varel and Brother Weylon said they were wrong, but they were wrong in other ways as well, and it made him squirm and gave him an overwhelming urge to kick the boy hard in a place that would mean he would never be able to do any of the things he talked about to anyone.

Alistair tried to stuff his pillow into his ears when Marcus started whispering. But he couldn't stop his own thoughts from betraying him. Part of him wished he could have his private room back. He thought he might be too embarrassed to scream now.

Every now and then one of the boys would have to change their sheets on a day that was different to normal. It wasn't until Alistair had to do it himself that he realised why. The older boys (apart from Marcus and Bannik) gave him sympathetic looks the first time it happened. No one said anything, but that evening Brother Varel took him aside and explained thoroughly and painfully what was happening to him and why it was important that he  _not_ do certain things that he might  _want_ to do very much indeed from this day on.

Alistair felt like the world was playing a huge joke on him. Why would the Maker do this to boys? Did he particularly hate them? What had they done as a sex to make life so difficult?

He was sure girls didn't have the same problem. They couldn't.

In the end it was his Templar training that helped him cope. The discipline could be used to focus his willpower in different ways and he found employing it at certain key points helped him overcome the most embarrassing manifestations of his problem. He pitied the boys who didn't have the discipline at their disposal.

It was doubly unfair because Alistair was truly beginning to enjoy his training. He found he was passing fair with a sword and shield, although there were three or four other initiates who could best him he often walked from the practice field victorious, even against the girls. The lessons that took up the rest of the afternoon were usually interesting enough to keep him focused and Marcus and Bannik seemed to have let go of their plans to make Alistair's life a misery.

He didn't realise until later that it was because they had found a new target.


	7. Chapter 7

He kicked a clump of dirt and considered throwing his shield in with it. What would _she_ know about his form any way? How come _she_ got to have extra instruction with the Knight Commander? Eryhn was older than him, and _yes_ she was better than him as well, but surely if she was _better_ she shouldn't need extra instruction?

And if she did get extra instruction, why couldn't he do it with her?

Instead he had to go back to meal time with the other orphan boys while soon to be _Ser_ Eryhn spent an extra hour learning how to beat him on the field _even more quickly_ than she already did. It wasn't _fair._

He sheathed his practice sword on his back and hooked his shield behind it, suddenly ravenous. At least he'd get to eat with the rest of the boys today. Most of the time he had to eat with the initiates, and given only one or two of them would even exchange words with him meal times were never pleasant. Yuri and Ewan and the other boys would speak to him, though. He could even complain about the Knight Commander - they loved hearing stories about the initiates.

It was just turning towards autumn and there was a slight nip in the wind that blew from the lake. Alistair savoured the walk through the Chantry grounds towards the promise of food and company, breathing in the air and using the time to get his temper under control.

He may as well not have made the effort for that, however, because his temper shot right back up to boiling as soon as he reached the dining hall.

He saw Marcus first. The boy had continued to shoot up like a beansprout the last few months and he stood head and shoulders over all the boys. He was facing the door, and Alistair, but his focus was downward, on a small figure, surrounded by about ten other boys. They were chanting - it took a moment for Alistair to make out the words - eat it, eat it, eat it.

Yuri was standing, impassively as always, in the middle of the circle of boys. On the stone floor bread, vegetables and meat were scattered. It looked like it had been stomped on by boyish feet. As he watched, Alistair saw another boy spit on the food and laugh.

"Come on, Chasind pig. Don't your kind always eat off the ground? I thought it would make you feel at home!" That was Marcus' voice. The tone sent white hot fury to the pit of Alistair's stomach and he found his hand automatically on the hilt of his sword. He took a breath, however, remembering the Revered Mother's words the last time he had let his temper take control, and instead looked up at the brothers supposedly supervising the meal for help.

To his horror and disgust, they were smiling and laughing at the display. Brother Kristof and Brother.. Bertrand. Of course. Something snapped in him. He found he was focusing his willpower without thinking, gathering his stamina and preparing to... what exactly?

Just in time he stopped himself from performing his first Holy Smite. If he let _that_ loose there was a good chance he'd hurt Yuri and the other boys as well as Marcus and Bannik, and that would just make things worse. No, he would have to use something else.

He let loose a shout instead and waded into the circle, drawing his practice sword and using his arms and its pummel to push the smaller boys aside. Yuri took the opportunity to run and hide under one of the long tables. Soon enough he was faced with just Marcus and Bannik, both of whom sneered down at him.

"Well if it isn't the little bastard, come to defend his Chasind girlfriend," Marcus said.

Bannik laughed. "Ha, girlfriend!"

Alistair raised an eyebrow at the bigger boy. "You know, Bannik, I think that's the first word I've ever heard out of you. How refreshing to realise that you are capable of speech!" Bannik frowned and didn't reply. "Obviously it's a talent that only expresses itself under extreme stress, however." Alistair finished, as he unhooked the shield from his back and settled it on his other arm.

"What are you going to do, Alistair?" Marcus said. "Stab us with your wooden sword? I'm sooooo terrified!"

"No, I'm not going to stab you with it," Alistair replied calmly, as he shifted the sword in his grip so that the flat was facing outwards. "I'm going to hit you with it. Hard."

Marcus' smile morphed into a sneer. "You mean you're going to try," he said, suddenly grim, and nodded to Bannik.

Alistair didn't give Bannik time to flank him. Instead he lashed out with his shield, catching the big boy a stunning blow to the side of the head, felling him.

Marcus watched his friend fall, seemingly unconcerned. "You're so full of honour, little bastard," Marcus said. "So convinced of what's _right_ but you're still going to attack me - in front of all your little _friends_ \- when I'm unarmed?"

"Where was your sense of honour, Marcus?" Alistair said evenly. "When you decided to attack a boy less than half your size?"

"I've never pretended to be _honourable_. I've never pretended to be _better_ than everyone else, like you have."

"I don't have to _pretend_ to be better than _you_ ," Alistair said. "You're a pig, Marcus. And you need to learn your place." Alistair lashed out with his sword and caught the older boy on the arm. Marcus yelled and turned, presenting a much more enticing target. Alistair swung again and caught Marcus on the backside, once, twice, before sweeping the sword at his feet and knocking him over. Bannik was trying to get to his feet and Alistair took the opportunity to wallop him the same way.

"All right, Alistair," Bertrand's voice came from behind him. "That's enough."

Alistair spun around, suddenly more angry with the brothers than he'd been with either of the bullies. "Enough?" he shouted. "What were you doing when they were tormenting Yuri? Aren't you supposed to be looking after us?"

"Come now, Alistair," Brother Kristof said, from where he still sat at the head table. "We would have stopped them before they'd hurt the boy."

"They'd _already_ hurt him!" Alistair cried. "You don't think being forced to eat of the floor _hurts?_ You're no better than these two." He motioned to the groaning boys on the ground. "I ought to take this sword to both of you and _harder_ \- for letting this go on."

Kristof snorted, but Bertrand turned a bright shade of red. "You just went too far, young man," Bertrand said, getting to his feet. "Let's take you to the Revered Mother and see what _she_ says."

Alistair sighed and all but threw the sword and shield on the ground. "Fine," he said, starting towards the door. "I'll go and tell her myself what's going on. Catch up with me if you can."

He stormed out of the room. He knew the way to the Revered Mother's office better than most. He fully expected to be in penitences for the rest of the season, but he was too angry to care. Men like Bertrand and Kristof deserved everything they got. He made a vow to himself that he _would_ take the practice sword to them, even if he had to wait until after he'd been made a full Templar, even if he had to be in penitences for the rest of his _life_.

"Alistair!" A new voice came from behind him. He didn't stop, even though it was one voice he would usually do anything for. "Alistair wait!"

He slowed a little. Sister Adela caught up with him and matched his stride. He looked across at her as he walked. "What's going on?" she said. "Where are you going?"

"I'm going to the Revered Mother," he said. "I need to speak to her."

"Alistair, are you crazy? She's not expecting you."

"She will be in a moment."

"You come back here, young man!" Brother Bertrand's voice came from behind them. "How dare you!"

"What did you do?" Adela asked softly.

"I beat up a couple of bullies," he said. "They were tormenting Yuri."

"The little Chasind boy?"

Alistair's breath exploded outwards. "Why does it matter if he's a.. if he's _Chasind_?" he almost wailed - the cry coming from somewhere deep inside him he didn't realise was still hurting. "He's a _little boy!"_

Adela put her hand on his arm. "It doesn't matter, Alistair," she said. "It's just a way... Oh never mind. What were they doing?"

The footsteps behind him were getting closer and Alistair didn't have time to explain. "Does _that_ matter? I'm going to be punished anyway. I may as well get there first and tell her why."

She exerted pressure on his arm until he would have had to drag her along with him as he marched if he kept going. He stopped. "Alistair wait," she said. "Tell me what happened." He opened his mouth to tell her, suddenly shocked that he didn't have to look up at her to do so. He was as tall as she was - when did that happen?

Behind her, before he could answer, Bertrand and Kristof came into sight in the corridor. Bannik and Marcus were stumbling along behind them. Alistair sighed in frustration, wishing suddenly he hadn't dropped the practice sword. "Right you little bas..." Kristof started, then realised there was a Sister present and stopped. "I'm sorry Sister," he said. "I didn't see you there."

"It's all right, Brother," Adela said, coldly. "Alistair was just telling me what happened in the dining hall."

"The little bas... twerp threatened to beat us up," Bertrand said. "We were about to take him to the Revered Mother for punishment, but he ran off."

Adela's eyebrow shot up. "Really?" she said. "Alistair was just telling me that he was going to the Revered Mother to tell her what happened."

Bertrand and Kristof looked at each other. "Well, why don't we all go together?" Adela said sweetly. "Oh, except that the boys are in the dining hall on their own, aren't they? Maybe you should go ahead and I'll check on them."

"That... would be most kind, Sister," Kristof said.

"Indeed, we can't leave them on their own," she said. "We would be lax in our duties if we did." She squeezed Alistair's arm once before she swept off down the corridor.

Alistair watched her go, trying not to feel like he'd just lost his only ally. She was right - with no supervision the boys would probably do worse things to each other than Bannik and Marcus could think up - and there was the food to consider. But he still wished she could come with him. A lot of his resolve seemed to walk away with her and all he could think of was the long months of penitence that stretched out ahead of him.

But he'd made his own bed and it was time to sleep in it. Bertrand and Kristof were smirking at him. He quelled the urge to kick at them and turned back towards the Revered Mother's offices.

"Enter," her voice came once he'd knocked on the door. Bertrand and Kristof stood behind him, each of them supporting one of the two bullies he'd beaten. He felt a small surge of satisfaction that they both _required_ support to stand.

He opened the door and strode into her office.

The Revered Mother was standing at the window and turned as he entered. Her face fell when she saw who it was. "Alistair," she said. "What is it?"

Bertrand and Kristof hustled the other two boys into the room. The Revered Mother took in the two other boys and gave a deep sigh.

"Perhaps you can explain better, Brothers?" she said, motioning for them to sit. Alistair stayed standing. So did Bannik and Marcus - through necessity rather than choice Alistair was pleased to note.

"I'm going to assume it has something to do with the rather unfortunate state of these two gentlemen," the Revered Mother said.

"Indeed it does, your holiness," Bertrand said, almost gleefully. He then launched into a description of Alistair's attack, conveniently, Alistair noted, leaving out the reason for it.

The Revered Mother leaned against her desk, listening intently. "I see," she said. "And there was no provocation for this attack at all?" Alistair wondered if they would answer her. They would be stupid to say there was nothing going on - there were some boys who would tell the truth, even if it meant getting on the bad side of Kristof and Bertrand. But if they were careful they would get out of being the ones truly responsible for the way things had gone.

Bertrand and Kristof looked at each other. "Well, your holiness," Kristof said. "I think Marcus may have been... teasing one of the other boys..."

"Teasing." The Revered Mother said, fixing the two boys with a knowing glare. "Really."

"Yes, your holiness. One of the newer boys... er.. the little dark one..." he looked up as the door opened and Sister Adela walked in, leading two other boys. Yuri and Ewan.

"Adela!" the Revered Mother said. "Can't you see I'm in the middle of something here?"

Adela nodded. "I'm sorry, your holiness," she said. "But I thought you might benefit from hearing exactly what the other boys saw."

All of the eyes on in the room focused on Adela. She had gone back to the hall to get witnesses? The Revered Mother's eyebrow shot up and Kristof and Bertrand shifted uncomfortably. Alistair eyed Marcus, who was staring at Adela with undisguised hatred. He felt a small surge of fear, suddenly, remembering with too much clarity Marcus' night time musings.

"Well, Sister," the Revered Mother said. "I suppose I should listen to all the sides of the story. Why don't we _all_ sit down."

An hour later the three boys were walking back to the dormitory together. Alistair could hardly believe it. Not only had the Revered Mother let him go without saying anything - no punishments, no recriminations - the way she had turned those cold dark eyes on Bertrand and Kristof made him think they would be lucky to get away with just penitences. And Marcus and Bannik were both still in there as well.

"Did you see the look on her face?" Ewan was practically bouncing up and down in excitement. "Those two are sooooo going to get in trouble. What happens when you're a _brother_ and you get in trouble? Do you get bigger penitences? Maybe they'll be _flogged."_

"I doubt it, Ewan," Alistair said.

Ewan's enthusiasm for thinking up punishments for Bertrand and Kristof didn't wane and he came up with a few good ones before they got back to the dormitory. At the door, however, Alistair felt a tug at his arm. He looked down to see Yuri's dark eyes again fixed on his.

"Thank you," he said softly.

Alistair smiled at the boy. "That's all right, Yuri. They had it coming."

The tiny boy flashed a smile - the first time he'd seen any expression cross that face. "Yes," he said forcefully. "They did."


	8. Chapter 8

Things changed a little, after that. The dining hall was converted into an armoury, and the entire Chantry now ate together in the main hall. It was a noisy affair, but it was also cheerful and relaxed. Under the Revered Mother's watchful eye, the worst behaviour that occurred was the odd thrown piece of food.

Brother Bertrand and Brother Kristof disappeared completely. Alistair and the other boys spent a few entertaining evenings speculating on what had happened to them.

Bannik and Marcus were given penitences, and they seemed to have very little time left for bullying the other boys.

Two years passed.

Initiates became full Templars when they turned twenty. Alistair thought he would never get there. At sixteen, four years stretched out before him like they were fifty. The physical training was some consolation, but the doctrine was beginning to make his teeth ache.

 _O Maker hear my cry:_

 _Guide me through the blackest nights_

 _Steel my heart against the temptations of the wicked_

 _Make me to rest in the warmest places_

Alistair's knees hurt. And the chant made him colder than he already was. _Make me to rest in the warmest places_ \- if only. He was so cold these days even embarrassment wasn't enough to reach his toes - and he was embarrassed a lot of the time.

 _O Creator, see me kneel:_

 _For I walk only where You would bid me_

 _Stand only in places You have blessed_

 _Sing only the words You place in my throat_

 _Maker,_ Alistair added in his head, _could you possibly have blessed this chantry with more effective heating?_ He shifted, trying to distribute his weight in a way that wouldn't make his knees ache so.

"Keep still," Cole hissed from beside him. "Do you want _more_ penitences?"

Alistair resisted the urge to snarl back at his fellow initiate, knowing that would just be more likely to bring the wrath of the Sisters down on them.

 _My Maker, know my heart_

 _Take me from a life of sorrow_

 _Lift me from a world of pain_

 _Judge me worthy of Your endless pride_

 _Oh, please lift me,_ Alistair thought. After six years of this, surely his knees should be desensitized to the pain by now. But it never got any better, he never found the right position and he nearly always managed to get into trouble.

The winter was particularly biting this year. The snows had come early and Lake Calenhad was completely frozen over. The roads were becoming impassable and only limited supplies were able to reach them from the rest of Ferelden.

Alistiar didn't understand why the Sisters and Brothers were so grim. The monastery was mostly self-sufficient with its surrounding farms and livestock. It shouldn't matter that they were cut off, but the mutterings amongst the Templars who were stationed there indicated that it did.

 _My Creator, judge me whole:_

 _Find me well within Your grace_

 _Touch me with fire that I be cleansed_

 _Tell me I have sung to Your approval_

Alistair really hoped that the Maker didn't require the chant to be sung with anything other than enthusiasm in order to approve of it. If he had standards like staying in tune he was in real trouble. And he didn't like the sound of being touched by fire in order to be cleansed. What of, exactly?

Ice sleds came and went from Redcliffe occasionally, but they were just as cut off from Denerim and Orzammar as the monastery was, and whatever it was the Templars needed wasn't going to come from Redcliffe. He had started to notice that Ser Malcolm and Ser Reynard were looking more haggard than usual, that they were more easily overcome on the practice field, that they were much _much_ shorter of temper. The initiates had been treading softly around them for the last couple of days.

 _O Maker, hear my cry:_

 _Seat me by Your side in death_

 _Make me one within Your glory_

 _And let the world once more see Your favor_

The Maker must have a lot of room to either side of him if everyone was going to sit next to him after they died. Alistair tried biting his lip to distract himself from the pain in his knees. It didn't work. Now he had sore knees _and_ a sore lip.

 _For You are the fire at the heart of the world_

 _And comfort is only Yours to give._

"How old do you have to be before you start getting arthritis?" Alistair wondered as they filed out of the chantry, trying to shake the stiffness out of his knees.

"Older than you," Cole said.

"Maybe you get symptoms early. I'm probably going to be a cripple before I'm thirty."

"Why can't you be still during sermons?" Cole said angrily. "Every time I sit next to you I get into trouble."

"Hey, you didn't today!"

"No, but that's..."

"Quiet, boys!" came a harsh voice behind them. Sister Constance.

Alistair raised his eyebrow at Cole, who glared at him. "Stupid bastard," Cole mouthed at him. Alistair grinned and sketched a short bow.

 _At your service,_ he thought.

On the practice field that morning Alistair felt good. Better than he'd felt for a long time. He even managed to get a few hits on Eryhn. But there was something wrong. Ser Malcolm was distracted. He paced nervously next to the field, looking towards the Chantry every couple of minutes. When Kalvin cheated and tripped Talrew Malcolm didn't even notice.

"What's going on with the Templars at the moment?" Talrew asked at the midday meal. Alistair was sitting a few seats away from him - they weren't friendly, but at least he didn't openly deride him. "They're all so jumpy. I heard Malcolm _shouting_ at one of the Sisters yesterday."

"I heard it's because the lyrium shipment is delayed," Eryhn said coldly.

"What?" Alistair said.

"You know, bastard," Kalvin said, letting the insult drip from his mouth casually the way it always did. "Lyrium? What we use to track malificarum?"

"So?" Alistair said between mouthfuls of stew. "There are no malificarum here. What do they need it for?"

"Are you really as stupid as everyone says you are?" Kalvin said. "You _know_ what happens if a Templar doesn't take his lyrium."

"Hessarian curses his socks? The Maker strikes him from afar? Malificarum start bursting out of the ground?"

"Probably for _him_ it would seem like that," Talrew muttered.

The other initiates were uncharacteristically grim as they ate.

"It doesn't happen often, this snowing in, does it?" one of the other initiates asked in a nervous voice. Alistair couldn't remember his name but he did know he'd only recently arrived from a different monastery.

"Not since I've been here," Alistair said.

"That's... reassuring," the boy said. "But I hope I don't get posted anywhere where it happens regularly."

Alistair rolled his eyes. Why was everyone so hung up on being cut off? "What is the problem?"

Eryhn frowned at him. She didn't like Alistair and made no secret of it, but she didn't like him for her own reasons, not because he was a bastard. He didn't mind not being liked by Eryhn. It was one of the only things that grouped him with the majority of initiates. Eryhn didn't like anybody.

"Templars need lyrium for more than just tracking malificarum, Alistair," she said. "They're addicted to it. Didn't whichever pack of dogs who raised you tell you that before you became an initiate?"

Alistair sat back in his chair. "Humph," he said. "Well, no. Being raised by dogs has its disadvantages, you know. They're not much for conversation."

"You mean you agreed to become an initiate, and they didn't _tell_ you about the lyrium?" Talrew said, sounding slightly outraged.

"Hey, I was ten when I got here. And who said I _agreed_ to this? My guardian put me here to keep me out of the way."

"You mean the Arl of Redcliffe, don't you?" Kalvin said.

Alistair rolled his eyes. "Yes, I mean the Arl of Redcliffe."

"It's a good way to get of an unwanted bastard," Kalvin said, smirking slightly.

Alistair clenched his teeth. "Did _you_ choose to be here?" he said.

"If you call being given a choice of this or common banditry, then yes I suppose I did," Kalvin voice turned grim. "There are worse things than being addicted to lyrium."

"Going without it, for one, it seems," Alistair said. "What will happen to Malcolm and Reynard if the shipment doesn't come?"

Talrew and Kalvin both looked at Eryhn. She raised her eyebrow. "They'll go mad," she said.

Alistair paced the halls that night. As a senior initiate he had some freedom now - of an evening he was allowed to spend time in the library or the practice fields if others were willing to spar with him. Most of that time he spent in the library - he'd discovered a love of reading that he felt compelled to hide from the other boys. But tonight he couldn't settle enough to read. His brain was buzzing. _Probably what being doped up on lyrium feels like_ , he thought bitterly.

He had been hearing the cries for a while before they registered on his occupied brain. When finally he woke up enough to actually understand what they were - shouts and screams from a man - he was already running towards them, reaching automatically for a sword that wasn't there.

They were coming from the Templar quarters. Only Ser Malcolm and Ser Reynard were in residence at the moment, but he couldn't tell who the voice belonged to - it was too hoarse with fear and pain for any identity to come through at all.

The door was closed, but Alistair didn't hesitate. He pushed it open.

Ser Reynard was being held down on his cot by three brothers, although it took a moment for Alistair to recognise him - his face was so distorted with fear and rage. He thrashed from side to side, crying out hoarse words that made no sense. Froth bubbled on his lips. As Alistair watched, unable to move from horror, another brother approached with a small vial of blue liquid. Lyrium, Alistair realised. "It's the last of it," he heard one of the brothers say softly. "Pray to the Maker the shipment arrives soon."

The lyrium was delicately poured down Reynard's throat. Alistair heard the gulping as Reynard swallowed, and somehow that sound was more disgusting than anything he'd ever heard or seen before. The thrashing subsided and Reynard's body gradually stilled.

Carefully, Alistair backed out of the room, pulling the door closed as he went. He walked back to the dormitory in silence.

Once he was in bed, it took him nearly an hour to stop shaking.


	9. Chapter 9

Three days later the snow stopped. Shipments started arriving a few days after that. Alistair's templar training was cancelled and he couldn't help but wonder if Reynard and Malcolm were in pain - if the shipments would arrive in time to save them from irredeemable insanity.

He didn't mind that his classes had been cancelled. The part of him that had been chafing at four more years in the Chantry had been replaced by a creeping horror of what was to come after. It no longer felt as though he was serving a sentence in a prison. Now it felt like he was awaiting execution.

They moved him to his own room. At sixteen he was the oldest in the dormitory - all the other boys his age who weren't initiates had left and he'd been sleeping in a cot with his legs hanging over the end for the past six months. He found he didn't mind. There was no hitch in his breath at entering the room by himself. His childhood fears had been replaced by others that had nothing to do with solitude. These days privacy was more than welcome.

It was over a week before his training began again - and Ser Reynard wasn't there. A new templar from Denerim had arrived to take his place. Harrith was just as grim and efficient as Reynard had been but Alistair didn't warm to him. He couldn't help but look at the man and wonder. What would he look in the throws of lyrium withrdrawal? Would he hold out - the way Malcolm had? Or would he collapse, like Reynard? Did it matter how well trained you were? How much lyrium you took? Did the Chantry give you a dose a day? Did they force it down your throat our could you choose when you gave in to the temptation?

What good was all the discipline they were learning if they could so easily be reduced to animals?

He walked under a black cloud for months. Finally, one evening in the library, he felt a soft hand on his shoulder. He looked up to see Sister Adela.

He tried to smile at her. Usually the mere thought of her made him smile, but the muscles in his face didn't seem to work the way they used to and all that came out was a grimace. She beckoned to him. He closed the book he'd been reading and followed her out of the library.

They made their way to the what used to be the boys dining hall, without speaking. Now it held rows of armour and weapon racks. Practice swords and shields. There were a few initiates and brothers here and there, polishing or repairing or checking equipment. Alistair found he couldn't look at the suits of templar armour without shuddering.

They found a bench and sat.

"What is it?" Adela asked him finally.

He rubbed his hand through his hair. How to explain? Adela had been his only friend in the Chantry since he first got there, but even _she_ hadn't bothered to let him know what his future held. Did she think Eamon and Teagan had told him, the way everyone else seemed to?

"I saw Reynard," he said eventually. "When he was in lyrium withdrawal."

Adela nodded. "It's not an easy thing to contemplate," she said evenly. "What could happen. You just have to remember that it doesn't happen very often."

"Is he... did he die? Do you know?"

She sighed. "No, he didn't die. He'll make a full recovery, in time. He just needs some care and we're not equipped for that sort of care here. I doubt he'll come back, though. They'll find him a posting nearer Orzammar - or in Denerim."

"You thought I knew, didn't you?" he said then. "What Templars had to do.. to track apostates. You thought they told me before I came here."

She looked at him, puzzled. "You mean they didn't?"

He snorted. "Of course not. What would a ten year old understand about that any way?"

"I... didn't think. I thought maybe the Arl would have written to you, or..."

Alistair shrugged. "Maybe if I'd agreed to see him he would have told me. Or if I'd ever opened any of the letters he sent. But I didn't. And..." his thoughts crystallised suddenly, into a hard core of anger and resentment and understanding "he wouldn't have let me go back any way."

"Why not?"

She didn't know. Of course she didn't. No one did, save perhaps the Revered Mother, and why would she tell a lowly sister? It was better that no one knew. And the less _he_ knew the better as well. It must have been a great relief to them all, when Isolde suggested the Templars. It was all about controlling him. Keeping him in line. He wouldn't be able to lead a rebellion against his brother if he was dependent on the Chantry for his daily fix. _I never even wanted to be king. Couldn't they have trusted me?_

"It's... not important," he said bitterly. "I just can't go back, that's all. This is my life now. I don't have any other options."

"It's obviously important," she said. "There's something you're not telling me."

He gave a small, desperate laugh. "Well, that's a switch."

"Alistair?"

"I'm not _allowed_ to tell anyone," he said, clenching his fists. "It's not my choice. Nothing is my choice."

"There are always options, Alistair," she said softly. "Remember that." She got to her feet. "If you feel like telling me what you're not allowed to tell me," she said with a small smile, "you know where I am."

He looked up into her kind grey eyes and felt a surge of feeling. "Why are you so nice to me?" he blurted. The words fell out of his mouth, without checking in with his brain first. He felt the flush of embarrassment rush to his face.

She laughed. "Because you're a good person," she answered simply. "It's easy to be nice to you."

"Do you mean everyone else is taking the hard way? I find _that_ difficult to believe."

She reached out and touched his shoulder. "Sometimes what's easy for one person is hard for another," she said, giving his shoulder a squeeze. He had to resist a sudden urge to take her hand and squeeze it back. _Not_ proper behaviour for a templar initiate. Or anyone, for that matter, with a sister. He sighed instead. She grinned at him and turned to go.

He sat for a long time in the armoury, his mind churning. Finally he got up, took a practice sword and shield, and made his way down to the field. Mindless violence would help. For a while.

They heard of the death of Maric later than most. News took its time to reach the monasteries. Alistair supposed it was because everyone thought quiet prayer and contemplation didn't need to be distracted by what was happening in the world. He wondered how long it would take them to tell them the Orlesians had invaded again.

Of course the boys and the initiates didn't know why they were being called to a special day of sermons. All they knew was they had to be on their best behaviour.

For once he could ignore the pain in his knees. They had held funeral services before, of course. The Chantry serviced the surrounding farmlands and many of the Brothers and Sisters had died of old age during his time. He had tried harder to be respectful, even though those services were longer than usual. This time he was too wrapped up in his own thoughts to fidget.

His father (it seemed strange to call him that) was dead. That meant Cailan would be king. He could still recall his father's face - the cold blue eyes, the appraising stare, but it was more difficult to picture his brother. Of course, he'd been very young, and Cailan had only been thirteen years old himself - but it seemed strange that the boy he remembered could be the ruler of Ferelden.

 _I suppose we were all boys at one stage,_ he thought. _Creepy._

There was to be a coronation. The Revered Mother was arranging to send some of the Templars to it, and some of the initiates. They asked Alistair if he wanted to go and he refused, much to the confusion of the other initiates. It wasn't just because he didn't want to see Cailan crowned. He told himself he didn't hold anything against his brother. He didn't want to rule - he wasn't suited for it. But he did _envy_ him with a deep, coiling envy that wrenched at his guts. At least, at the funeral rites _he_ attended he was able to acknowledge that Maric had been his father. At least he'd known his mother, before she died. At least he'd had a family, for a time.

He imagined what the coronation would be like. Everyone would be there - Eamon, Teagan, Isolde. They would expect to speak to him, and he didn't know how easy it would be to avoid that without giving away more than he should. He also didn't know if he'd be able to control his temper if he was faced with his former guardian. Maybe he had been stubborn and stupid, not to see him when he came to visit, not to open his letters. Maybe he would have found out what awaited him if he'd been less... childish. But the damage was done now and Alistair felt it was too late to try and repair it. It was better he stay in the Chantry.

For now, any way.


	10. Chapter 10

The tower was imposing in a very phallic way. The Tevinter Imperium was supposed to be full of similar towers - built by the mage lords. He wondered if there was a competition to see which lord had the biggest one.

Of course here, at Lake Calenhad, the circle tower had no competition. It loomed. And Alistair had never really seen a tower of any kind before. Perhaps if he had it wouldn't seem so intimidating.

"We'll take the boat across," Herrith said. They had travelled around the shores of Lake Calenhad to get here, stopping in villages along the way to deliver supplies and pick up some of their own. Only Alistair and Herrith would be traveling to the Tower itself, however. The four Brothers who had come with them would stay at the Spoiled Princess.

A Harrowing was not a place for anyone but mages and Templars.

He was nearly eighteen. This was part of his training and had been delayed quite a while. All the other initiates had attended a Harrowing already. They wouldn't tell him what was involved. Some of them seemed disturbed by it, although a couple said it was simply boring.

The fact that it was called a Harrowing was not very reassuring.

Inside, they were met by an imposing Templar by the name of Greagoir. Alistair bowed with his arms crossed over his chest - this was the Knight Commander of the tower, one of the most powerful Templars in Ferelden and worthy of respect. He fixed his blue eyes on Alistair's and raised an eyebrow.

"This is your initiate, Herrith?" he said. "We can rely on him to keep his mouth shut and do his duty, I hope?"

Herrith raised an eyebrow. "Do his duty, maybe," he said. "Keeping his mouth shut has always been a problem."

The Knight Commander frowned. "Well then, boy," he said, still staring at Alistair. "Let me impress on you the importance of discretion in this case. The harrowing is a secret ritual - one that every circle apprentice must go through before they can progress to being a full mage. No apprentice knows what awaits them before they enter the Harrowing chamber, and no apprentice must ever know. Do you understand?"

If he wasn't stationed to the Tower the only mages he would ever meet would be apostates he would be dragging back to be imprisoned, or malificarum he would be doing his best to kill, so he didn't really know why they were bothering with all the warnings, but he nodded solemnly any way, hoping Herrith wouldn't let slip any more of his faults to the imposing man.

"Has Herrith informed you what you will need to do?" Greagoir said.

"He told me we might need to kill the mage," Alistair replied, swallowing.

Greagoir sighed and motioned for the two of them to follow him. "Indeed, you might," he said as they walked through the halls. "But you must remember that if you end up having to attack, it won't be the woman you are attacking. It will be an abomination - a demon inside a woman's body. You must _not_ hesitate. You must _not_ let your feelings get in the way of your duty. It's possible she will look exactly the same as she did before the harrowing began - it's also possible - if the demon is not so subtle - that she will change into something less... human."

"Less human?"

"She'll look like the demon who possessed her," Herrith said, more grim than usual. "It makes it easier, sometimes."

"How will we know, if she doesn't... change?" Alistair asked.

Greagoir looked at him with a small smile on his face. "Good question, boy. Most demons aren't subtle enough not to give themselves away as soon as they reach the physical realm - she will sound different, stand differently. We rely on our own judgement in these matters."

"What if you're wrong?" Alistair suddenly felt ill. "What if you kill her and she _wasn't_ possessed?"

"Don't worry - First Enchanter Irving will be there also, and he knows his students well enough to tell when they are possessed. There are subtle changes in a mage's power, especially a young mage who is yet to discover their full potential. It's why we have the harrowing so early."

"Early? How old is she?"

"Eighteen," Greagoir said.

Alistair suddenly thought there were much worse things than becoming a Templar.

"How many mages die during the Harrowing?" he asked.

"Some," Greagoir said. "More than we would like. Fewer than you might think."

 _Oh, thanks,_ Alistair thought, _really informative._

They climbed the Tower. Alistair found himself warming to Greagoir, he seemed to have genuine affection for the mages under his charge, unlike the barely veiled hostility he felt from Herrith, or the fear from the other initiates. These were people, no different from Alistair. At least, that's what he told himself. They were so quiet. In the Chantry the Brothers and Sisters would love it if the orphans and initiates would walk around the way these people did - noses in books, softly whispering to each other...

There was something else, though, that worked its way under his initiate splintmail as they walked. An undercurrent of fear. A feeling of... wrongness. He was reminded of classes with Brother Bertrand, constantly on watch for the swish of his cane. Every now and then a young apprentice would look up at him with wide eyes. They weren't orphans. They hadn't been abandoned by their families.

 _They'd been taken._

The Harrowing chamber was filled with the faint blue light that came from lyrium. Alistair eyed the magical substance with faint disgust. Seven or eight Templars were stationed around the room already, silent and grim in their Templar armour. Herrith took Alistair's arm and turned him. "Ailstair, this is probably the most important part of your training. If something goes wrong, don't hesitate to use your abilities - you're progressing well and have enough control now. We're all Templars here."

"Why so many, ser?" he asked.

"We can never tell how strong the abomination might be," Herrith said. "It's better to be safe."

The door opened and two people entered, the first, an older man, still tall and hale, but weary. He was dressed in mage robes and Alistair guessed he must be the first enchanter.

The second was so tiny Alistair thought at first it was a child. But it wasn't. _An elf,_ he thought to himself. She barely reached the first enchanter's chest - so lithe and delicate. He'd seen elves in Redcliffe when he was a boy, of course, but not many and he'd been so young and small himself then that he never appreciated how much smaller they were than humans.

She had white hair and dark eyes and her face was tattooed with what must have been a traditional Dalish clan marking. Almost certainly she had not come to the Tower willingly. Alistiar knew that the Dalish had mages of their own, that Templars spent a good deal of time hunting them but rarely found them - the Dalish were just too good at hiding from humans. Obviously this girl had been captured early and forced into the tower.

His heart twisted.

She was calm as she took her place in the centre of the chamber. Irving laid his hand on her shoulder and spoke to her, low and soft and she nodded once, firmly. _Confident,_ Alistair thought. He hoped that was a good sign.

The Harrowing began.

Alistair wished he'd asked Herrith how long they usually took. Standing still and waiting was _not_ one of his talents. _I really hope I don't get stationed to the tower,_ he thought to himself. Standing still and waiting seemed to be the only thing that Tower Templars did. He didn't think he'd seen a Templar aside from Greagoir and Herrith move, let alone talk, since he got there. _Entirely too grim for me,_ Alistair thought. _I don't want to be a jailor._

An hour passed. Irving started to look anxious and Alistair began to think something was not right. Greagoir and Irving had a quick, whispered conversation and Greagoir motioned to the Templars to be ready.

"Don't like the look of this, boy," Herrith said to him, drawing his sword. "I suggest you arm yourself."

 _But she's so little..._ Alistiar thought, suddenly anguished. Herrith raised his eyebrow at him and Alistair drew his sword and shield, settling them into place. His heart was thumping in his chest and he didn't think he'd be able to focus his willpower on the girl in front of him, even if she started throwing fireballs around. _She's so little._

The girl stirred. Irving motioned everyone to stand back as she slowly got to her feet. There was a moment when Alistair thought it was all right - that she had succeeded and everything would be fine. Then she opened her mouth and laughed.

The Templars seemed to move as one. He felt the force of a holy smite shoot past him and recognised Herrith's aura. The girl, who was morphing and changing as they watched into something else - something huge and dark and malevolent, shrugged it off and threw out her... _its_ arms. Three of the Templars surrounding her were encased in bands of light - paralysis. Alistair found himself acting quickly - casting cleanse. He was surprised it was strong enough to work - but the Templars who had been frozen moved forwards, freed by his action, and engaged the demon.

Alistair ran forward to help.

It was over quickly. Alistair hadn't even managed to connect his blade to the demon before another of the Templars made the killing blow. He was clinical, unemotional and thorough. Obviously he had done this before. The demon was dead - the body didn't resemble the elf girl it had been at all. She was erased, more completely gone than if she'd died naturally.

Alistair couldn't help but feel sad for her - for who she might have been. If the Tower hadn't found her, would she have lived happily with her tribe? Would she have become a full Dalish mage?

He was conflicted. He could see the value of the Harrowing - if that... thing she had become was a possibility for all mages there needed to be some way of preventing it. But surely there was a better way? She had been so young...

In the short boat trip back to the Spoiled Princess, Herrith patted Alistair on the shoulder. "You did well, son," he said. "That cleanse was well cast and you thought quickly. I'm proud of you."

Alistair nodded, but didn't smile. He didn't feel proud of himself. He looked down at his hands, encased in splintmail gloves, but to his imagination, covered in blood.

 _Maker,_ he thought. _Don't let me be assigned to the Tower. I don't want to have to do that again._


	11. Chapter 11

Alistair had never been to Denerim before. He wasn't entirely sure why he was here now, save that Adela had come to him and told him he _had_ to go, that he had no excuse not to this time. When he'd asked her why she'd smiled at him in a way that was beginning to make his heart speed up and said "You'll see. I told you there were always options."

The tournament had become a yearly thing since Cailan had been crowned. Herrith thought it was a waste of time and resources, but the other Templars looked on it as an opportunity to showcase their skills and have some fun - something that was sorely lacking in the Chantry or their regular postings. "You'll be allowed to compete if you mind your manners, Alistair," Herrith told him on the trip into the city. "But I have to warn you, Knight Commander Glaven has a more strict idea of what good manners are than your average Templar."

"Why would they let me compete?" Alistair asked. "I'm not even a full Templar yet."

"But you will be soon. Once we get back to the Chantry. And winning or doing well in the tournament might get you some consideration, were you to ask for a particular posting, for example. Adela told me you weren't keen on going back to the Tower."

"I... ah... I didn't know you spoke to Sister Adela."

Herrith gave him one of his rare smiles. "Sister Adela has a way of making friends," he said.

They were to be in the city for two weeks. The tournament would take place at the end of the first week. Alistair found he was even a little excited. Only two other initiates had come with Herrith from the Chantry, but they would be met in Denerim by some old acquaintances of his - Eryhn, Talrew and Kalvin were all slated to compete in the tournament.

They were to stay in Templar quarters on the outskirts of the City. Alistair had chores and training as normal, but he was also given some coin and some free time. On the second day of their stay he wondered into the market district.

It was much, much more crowded than Redcliffe had ever been. Alistair was on his own - none of the other initiates wanted to be seen with him, and he felt intimidated by the people, the crush of bodies, the noise and the smells. He found a cheese stall and spent a good deal of his coin there, happily munching as he took in the sights of the city.

He didn't consciously make his way there, but after a few hours he found himself looking up at an imposing building with a large crest over the gates. Two Griffons, standing rampart.

The Denerim Grey Warden headquarters had been in disrepair until Maric's reign, and it still showed signs of lack of care. Alistair found himself pressing his face against the gate bars like a ten year old, trying to see if there were any wardens inside.

"You could knock, you know," came a deep voice from behind him. "Or even try opening the gates. We don't often lock them."

Alistair spun round, flushing to the roots of his hair in embarrassment, and found himself face to face with a tall, imposing man - black hair and a black beard, with dark, piercing eyes set on either side of a blade of a nose. He was brown skinned from long sun exposure and wore a dagger and sword on his back.

"I'm sorry!" Alistair blurted. "I just... wanted to see if there were any wardens about. You know. I've never seen a warden before."

"You have now," the man said.

"Ser, you're a warden? I... "

"Not what you expected?"

"No, that's not it.." Alistair sighed in frustration and ran his hand through his hair. "I just.. wanted to meet one, that's all."

"What's your name, son?"

"Alistair," he said. "I'm a Templar initiate. Here for the tournament."

The man cocked his eyebrow and his demeanor changed slightly. "Alistair?" he repeated softly. "Mmm. That's not a particularly common name around here."

"No ser," he said. "I'm from Redcliffe, originally... well my mother was."

"Well, Alistair," the man continued. "If you're so keen to meet wardens, perhaps you'd like to accompany me inside? Unless you have pressing business elsewhere?"

Alistair's mouth dropped open in a gape. "I.. that is... I'd love to! Are you sure the Commander won't mind?"

The dark haired man let out a burst of laughter. "Since I _am_ the Commander, I don't see how he could possibly object."

"You're Duncan?" he hadn't thought he could be more embarrassed. "Maker's breath. I'm a fool."

Duncan smiled. "Not at all," he said. "Just honest. Which is a virtue, in these times. Won't you come inside?"

Three hours later Alistair was on his way back to the Templar quarters, his mind buzzing. He remembered that long ago boat trip across Lake Calenhad, his boyish fantasy to become a grey warden. Part of that longing had never left him. To actually meet the Commander - to see the wardens gathered together, talking, laughing, had rekindled that desire. _That_ was a life he would have chosen.

He had lost track of all time and didn't even notice that it was dark by the time he reached the templar quarters. Herrith was standing at the gates, arms folded across his chest and glaring.

 _Oops,_ Alistair thought. _This is me, in trouble. Watch and laugh._

"Alistair, you're impossible," Herrith said. "Glaven's talking about keeping you out of the tournament. Do you know what time it is?"

"Um.. late?"

"Get yourself inside now, young man. I hope that tongue of yours is smart enough to talk your way out of this one, or you'll have wasted an entire trip."

He was hauled up in front of the Knight Commander. Glaven was imposing, humourless and ugly. "Where have you been?"

Alistair shifted. "I took a walk around the city, Ser," he said.

"Where have you been?" Galven repeated.

"I went to the grey warden compound, Knight Commander," Alistair said. "The Commander was there. He... let me inside - to see the other wardens. It was very interesting!"

"Insolent boy!" Galven said. "Do you think I'm a fool? Where have you been?"

Alistair blinked. "I... just told you, Ser," he said.

"Don't lie to me! I know your type! Turn out your pockets!"

Alistair was bewildered. He emptied his pockets - suddenly mortified to find they were already empty. The cheese he had eaten, but the remaining coins... gone. He must have been pickpocketed.

"What happened to the money you were given, boy?"

He was desperately embarrassed. "I... don't know.. ser. I must have been robbed."

The Knight Commander took Alistair's chin in his hand and stared into his eyes. "I know where you've been, boy. I can smell the stink of them on you. Disgusting. You're not worthy of being a Templar."

 _The stink?_ Alistair wondered if the Knight Commander meant the cheese he had eaten. But...

"Get yourself down to the Chantry and report to the Sisters," Glaven said. "Repent your sins, boy, and pray the Maker doesn't strike you down for giving in to your lust. I've a good mind to send you straight back to Redcliffe."

Herrith fell into step beside Alistair as he left, still utterly bewildered. "I don't understand," he said. "What does Glaven think I did? What's so wrong with visiting the Grey Wardens and eating cheese?"

"Glaven... has strong beliefs, Alistair," Herrith said. Then he stopped and looked at Alistair, long and hard. "You truly don't know why he was angry with you, do you?" he said, the wonder evident in his voice.

Alistair shook his head.

"Andraste's mercy, boy. You astonish me sometimes. You were sent into the largest city in Ferelden with a pocket full of coin. You come back late, smelling like Maker knows what, penniless and excited, and you're telling me you _didn't_ visit a whorehouse?"

Alistair's jaw dropped. "You mean he thinks I..." he clapped his hands to his forehead. "Holy Maker."

When he looked up Herrith's mouth was twitching with suppressed laughter. "Holy Maker indeed," he said. "Oh, Alistair, I'm going to miss you when you're stationed. You are truly unique."

"Ser," Alistair said. "Does this mean I won't be able to compete?"

Herrith shrugged. "I'm not sure, boy," he said. "Glaven is a hard man to convince, once he's made up his mind. I'll talk to him, but I can't make any promises." Alistair's shoulders slumped a little, at that. "Either way it's going to be a long week for you, my lad," Herrith continued. "With all your coin gone. What _is_ that Maker cursed smell, by the way?"

"Cheese, ser," Alistair said.

"Cheese," Herrith looked thoughtful. "Well, I hope it was worth it."


	12. Chapter 12

They weren't going to let him compete. He wasn't really that surprised. Through no fault of his own - well.. apart from a slightly boyish enthusiasm for griffons and cheese - he was going to have to sit through the tournament watching from the sidelines.

He didn't mind that much. At least if he was in the audience Cailan was less likely to see him. He wondered if his brother would recognise him - probably not considering the last time they'd met he'd been eight years old.

The tournament was held on the Denerim Templar training field. It was a gala occasion. Herrith had hinted there might even be a cheese stall.

Alistair suspected the old Templar of tormenting him.

Although Herrith had been sympathetic towards Alistair's cause, in the end he hadn't been able to sway Glaven from his decision to exclude him. "I know you didn't do... what he thought you did," Herrith had said to Alistair. "But you were out late when we expressly told you not to be, and to be honest that's the worrying thing from my point of view. We need to be able to rely on you, Alistair - you have to follow orders if you're to be part of a Templar unit, not wander off on your own whenever you feel like some cheese."

"I'm never going to hear the end of the cheese thing," Alistair grumbled.

Herrith grinned at him. "Not if I can help it, lad. Not if I can help it."

He was startled when the tournament began, however, to see Duncan seated at Cailan's right hand. What was the Warden Commander doing there? He nudged Herrith, who was sitting next to him at Glaven's orders. "Why is the Commander of the Wardens here?" he asked.

"Oh, he's always here for the tournaments," Herrith said. "The rumour is that he comes to pick out recruits for the wardens, but he's never chosen anyone."

"He's recruiting for the wardens from the Templars? What does the Knight Commander think of that?"

"If the Commander ever chose one, we'd find out. As it is, he's come the last three years and not taken anyone. Obviously we don't meet his standards."

Queen Anora was there, looking radiant and disinterested and exactly like she had the one time he'd met her in Redcliffe, except her hair was up and she was older. Alistair thought she'd been born with that expression on her face, of faint disgust. There were other nobles present as well - a scattering of familiar faces - Fergus Cousland and his father, Bryce. The Arl of Denerim. And at the far end of the pavilion, despite his unique status, Loghain Mac Tir. Alistair felt a small thrill as he laid eyes on the great hero for the first time in his life. A grim man, dressed in armour despite the safety of the city now. Perhaps he felt naked without it, Alistair thought. After so many years fighting it would be difficult to shake off the habit.

Once the tournament began, Alistair forgot his disappointment at not being included. He had watched his fellow initiates spar on a daily basis, but these were mostly full Templars and he had time to appreciate the difference.

He was also proud at how well his fellow Redcliffe Chantry initiates held themselves. There was no doubt that Kalvin and Talrew and Eryhn were the best on the field. He was beginning to place bets with himself on which of them would win, when Herrith nudged him in the ribs. "Alistair," he said. "The Knight Commander is beckoning you. You'd better get over there quickly."

Alistair gulped. What could he possibly have done this time? He clambered down from the bench and made his way speedily to the pavilion where the Knight Commander sat, on the other side of Duncan... so very close to King Cailan that Alistair felt his heart rate speed up in fear. But the King was focused on the field and didn't even look his way when he approached.

"Alistair, Duncan has expressed a wish to see you fight," Glaven said.

"Ser?"

"You heard me, boy. Get your armour and weapons and join the fray. You've been reprieved."

"I ah.. yes ser! Thank you ser!"

He raced back to his quarters.

He emerged ten minutes later in his splintmail with his sword and shield on his back. There were mutterings from the participants. He shrugged and grinned, hoping they wouldn't be too hard on him just because he'd entered late.

His first match was against a Templar from Amaranthine - Rowley. Alistair had never met the man before, but he was obviously embarrassed to be matched with an initiate. Alistair took his measure and beat him handily, surprising himself as he delivered the final blow. He grinned down at Rowley and offered an arm to help him up. "Sorry about that," he said. "The ground's deceptively... flat here, no?"

Rowley scowled at him and refused his hand, scrambling up and stalking from the field in disgust. Alistair looked up to where the Knight Commander and Duncan were sitting, and shrugged.

Nearly every match ended similarly. Some of the more experienced Templars smiled back at him and took his offered hand when he beat them, but most avoided his eyes and disdained his help. A few of them called him a bastard - obviously Kalvin had been whispering in their ears between bouts. Alistair found he didn't care.

He didn't win every match, which was hardly surprising. There were Templars here with years of experience in the field. Against his former fellow initiates, he knew he was hopelessly outclassed, and he tried to be gracious when they defeated him - even to Kalvin who surreptitiously spat near the ground where Alistair lay after their bout. Eryhn, however, gave him a wicked grin as she landed the last blow, and he couldn't help grinning at her in return. Obviously full duty had burned away some of her unfriendliness, and he was glad of it.

At the end of the day Ser Eryhn was crowned victorious. She was presented with a trophy by Cailan himself, and Alistair could have sworn he saw her blush when the king shook her hand. _Well, well,_ he thought. _She_ is _a girl after all._

After the trophy had been given, Duncan stood. The field went silent, wondering if he was to recruit Eryhn. "I have come to this tournament now for three years," Duncan said, "with the intention of finding a recruit for the Grey Wardens. I am pleased to announce that today I have found one."

The pavilion erupted into applause. Eryhn bowed her head, hiding her expression. Alistair wondered if she was happy. She'd been assigned to the Tower, he remembered. At least now she would only have to kill darkspawn.

"I will recruit Alistair," Duncan finished.

There was a stunned silence. Alistair looked up at Duncan blankly. The Knight Commander was whispering fiercely in Duncan's ear but the warden commander was shaking his head, his dark eyes fixed on Alistair's face. "But I didn't win the tournament!" Alistair said finally.

"No, you didn't," Duncan said. "But no one said you had to win it in order to be recruited." Alistair blinked. "If you like," Duncan continued, "we can leave immediately. You might want to gather your things."

It took a couple of seconds for Duncan's words to sink in. Once they hit him fully, he found his feet racing towards his quarters on their own.


	13. Chapter 13

_I don't have to be a Templar any more,_ the thought raced around in his head over and over as Duncan led him back to the Warden headquarters. He'd said a hasty goodbye to Herrith, written a note for him to give to Adela _how had she known?_ another to Yuri, and he was off. Away from the Chantry. Away from the monastery. Away from the threat of lyrium addiction and possible madness. He felt like he was floating - or dreaming.

Night was beginning to fall in Denerim and Duncan walked with wariness. Alistair had given little thought to danger in his first trip out into the streets and had paid for it - but Duncan's wariness was more than just a healthy fear of pickpockets or cutthroats. He walked with a silent grace that had everything to do with experience - fighting experience. Alistair doubted that any of the Templars on the field today would have been able to match the warden commander, had he been tempted to try his skills.

Which made it all the more puzzling why he'd decided to recruit Alistair, out of all the warriors he could have chosen.

"You don't have to be silent around me, Alistair," Duncan said. "The Grey Wardens aren't quite as strict when it comes to hierarchy as the Templars, and I can tell you're bursting with questions."

"Why did you choose me?" he blurted. Duncan raised his eyebrow, a small smile playing around his lips. "I.. ah.. I mean... there was Ser Eryhn, and Ser Kalrew.. they both bested me. And they weren't the only ones."

"The Grey Wardens are interested in prowess in battle, Alistair, but it's not the only thing we look for in a recruit, nor is it the most important."

"What is then?"

"Character, Alistair. Will. The Grey Wardens are charged with defending all of Thedas against the darkspawn and blights. And we have to make certain... sacrifices. Your Ser Eryhn would probably hesitate, I think, if she knew what those sacrifices were."

"Forgive me if I sound skeptical, Commander, but you still haven't answered my question."

Duncan laughed. "Well, I did say you should speak freely, didn't I? Alistair, I knew of you before you came to Denerim. A friend of mine wrote to me recently and told me to look out for you."

"Adela!" he cried. "She wrote to you, didn't she?"

Duncan smiled and nodded. "She mentioned you'd be coming here, to compete in the tournament. I didn't expect you to get yourself in trouble before I even had the opportunity of watching you fight, though."

"Knight Commander Glaven didn't tell you what I did, did he?" Alistair said, suddenly afraid, and extremely embarrassed.

"Would it matter if he had?"

"Would it matter if I said yes?"

Duncan laughed. "He said you'd visited a whorehouse."

"It's not true!" Alistair said. "I didn't... you know where I was that day - I was here with you..."

"Calm yourself, Alistair. I know you didn't. And to be honest it wouldn't matter if you had. Not to us, any way. Grey Wardens don't take vows of chastity you know."

"Well, there's another plus," Alistair said under his breath.

"You exhibited great strength on the field today, Alistair," Duncan continued. "Your skills will only grow with time, I am certain of it. But the thing that we look for in our recruits, the thing that is most important, is the _will_ to get things done. In a Blight, we must do whatever it takes to defeat the darkspawn, despite the cost to ourselves. From what I saw today, I believe you're capable of that. Of putting the rest of Ferelden before your own interests."

Alistair was silent for a moment as he contemplated Duncan's words. He wasn't certain Duncan had the right idea about him. It wasn't as if he'd ever had an opportunity to put his own interests first. Maybe that's what Duncan meant - maybe he'd been trained so thoroughly he didn't _have_ any interests of his own. The thought was a depressing one.

"You don't seem pleased, Alistair."

"Oh, that's not true, Ser," he said. "I'm very, _very_ happy to be here. I'm just.." he suddenly remembered something. "How well do you know the king?" he asked.

Duncan sighed. "You mean, how well do I know your brother?"

Alistair's shoulders slumped and he stopped walking. "Was this arranged too, then?" he asked. "Did they decide doping me up on lyrium and sending me after malificarum wasn't good enough?"

Duncan looked at Alistair, long and hard, and there was kindness in the gaze, as well as sadness. "Alistair, I recruited you for your merits, not your blood. Please remember that. I would never recruit a warden if they did not have the potential to be a great one."

"But.. does Eamon know? What about Cailan? Did he say anything?"

"I believe Cailan said.. and I quote here _'lucky bastard'."_ Alistair couldn't stop the laugh of amazement that burst out of him."Eamon will know in due course, although really, Alistair, it wouldn't matter what they said. Grey Wardens have the right of conscription, you know."

"You'd do that? You'd conscript me?"

There was no hesitation in Duncan's firm answer. "Yes. I would."

Alistair couldn't really give a name to the feeling that washed over him at Duncan's words. It was part gratitude, but there was a good deal more to it - a sense of being wanted - that he'd never had before.

"I.. don't know what to say. Except thank you."

"You might not want to thank me, once you realise what it means to be one of us. Let me warn you now. There is no turning back. You are a warden now."

Alistair couldn't think of anything he'd rather be.


End file.
